"Wal, it air kewrious, I admit, an' do look as ef the devvil hed a hand in't. But he's playin' agen ye, Dick, yet, an' he'd beat ye sure, ef ye try to fout agin him. Take the device I've gin ye, an' git out o' his and thar way as fur's ye kin. Kaliforny's a good way off. Go thar as ye intended. Git rich if ye kin, an' ye think ye hev a chance. Do that, and then kum back hyar ef ye like. When yur pockets are well filled wi' them thar shinin' pebbles, ye kin command the law as ye like, and hev as much o' it as ye've a mind to." "I shall have it for my own wrongs, or for his." "Wal, I reck'n you hev reezun both ways. They used _you_ durn'd ill. Thar's no doubt o' that. Still, Dick, ye must acknowledge that appearances war dreadfully agin' ye." "Against me--perdition! From the way you say that, Jerry Rook, I might fancy that you too believed it. If I thought you did--" "But I didn't, an' don't, ne'er a bit o' it, Dick. I know you war innercent o' _thet_. "Jerry Rook, I have sworn to you, and swear it again, that I am as innocent of that girl's murder as if I had never seen her. I acknowledge that she used to meet me in the woods, and on the spot where she was found with a bullet through her heart, and my own pistol lying empty beside her. The pistol was stolen from my house by him who did the deed. It was one of the two men; which, I could never tell. It was either Buck or Brandon, the fathers of those fellows who have been figuring to-day. Like father, like son! Both were mad after the girl, and jealous of me. They knew I had outshined them, and that was no doubt their reason for destroying her. One or other did it, and if I'd known which, I'd have sent him after her long ago. I didn't wish to kill the wrong man, and to say the truth, the girl was nothing to me. But after what's happened to-day, I'll have satisfaction on them and their sons too--ay, every one who has had a hand in this day's work!" "Wal, wal; but let it stan' over till ye kum back from Kaliforny. I tell, ye, Dick, ye kin do nuthin' now, 'ceptin' to git yur neck into a runnin' rope. The old lot are as bitter agin you now as they war that day when they had ye stannin' under a branch, wi' the noose half tightened round your thrapple; and ef ye hadn't got out o' thar clutches, why, then thar'd a been an end o't. Ef you war to show here agin, it wud be jest the same thing, an' no chance o' yur escapin' a second time. Therefar, go to Kaliforny. Gather as many o' them donicks, an' as much o' the dust as ye kin lay yur claws on. Kum back, an' maybe then I mout do someat ter 'sist ye to the satisfacshin ye speak o'." Tarleton stands silent, seeming to reflect. Strange that in all he has said, there is no tone of sorrow--only anger. The grief he should feel for his lost son--where is it? Has it passed away so soon? Or is it only kept under by the keener agony of revenge? With some impatience, his counsellor continues:--